


caught between a dream

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Angst, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-02-27 18:02:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13253667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “You’re going to have to tell me why you had a gun in your pocket and three bullets in your body eventually,” Harry says, not looking at Zayn.Zayn doesn’t reply.“I’m not stupid. You’re lucky I haven’t called the police.”“Why haven’t you?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> okay so we will see where this goes... it’s mostly just for a few friends lol but anyway!
> 
> it’s not edited because im lazy oops

He thinks this might be the hundredth person he’s commissioned for. Not the hundredth person he has ever killed and not the last person he will kill. He thinks this might be the hundredth person but he can’t be sure; names and faces blur and motives and reasoning become one but Zayn knows that this isn’t his first and certainly won’t be his last.

He’s Irish, a 30 something year old with too many opinions, especially concerning Zayn’s employer. Zayn doesn’t know much but he doesn’t ask. Doesn’t bother to.

He’s crouched on one of the branches on a massive oak tree, jacket pulled tightly over his body and handgun clasped even tighter. The wind is icy, prickling Zayn’s ears and the rain that patters down against the leaves is cool. Droplets of rain fall steadily against the back of Zayn’s neck, into his shirt and along the line of his spine. He twitches slightly but doesn’t move. The target should leave his car anytime now, one of the tire’s hit a nail and with only one driver, Zayn figures he has an easy shot. 

They’re just outside some rural town, Rye, he remembers, and from what Zayn bothered to read, he’s here on vacation with his girlfriend. Zayn peers into the car but doesn’t spot a woman, just the target and his driver. After a few more minutes, the target finally stumbles out of the car, gesturing to the trunk and back to the driver.

Zayn sucks in a sharp breath, flicking the safety off his gun and aiming directly for the target’s head. It’s over quickly; he pulls the trigger and watches the man crumple to the ground, a bloody hole gaping at the side of his head.

What he doesn’t expect is the driver who pulls out a gun, shooting directly into the tree Zayn’s hiding in. Zayn ducks uselessly but it seems a little too late, everything moves a little too slow and he feels a little too helpless when the driver manages to nick his shoulder twice and then his side.

A biting, sharp pain blooms at his side and then slightly less so at his shoulder; Zayn squeezes his eyes shut, fumbling to keep his balance on the branch. He suddenly feels hot as a blistering heat spreads from his chest towards his neck and wraps around his sides. He clenches his jaw, breaths coming short, as if they’re scraping against his throat, fighting to come out.

Zayn glances down, between the thicket of leaves and branches as the driver drags the body back into the car before getting in himself. The car swerves slightly from the small hole in the tire but the driver continues on the road until he disappears from Zayn’s sight.

The drizzle is no longer a drizzle but a brewing storm as dark clouds appear in the sky and rain falls heavily on the asphalt. Zayn presses his palm over the bullet wound in a poor attempt to stop the bleeding; it stings and he closes his eyes, head rolling back against the trunk of the tree behind him. He lifts his hand slightly, examining the tear in his shirt where the bullet went through and inhales slowly. His hand is stained red; drops of rain spill over his palm, smearing the blood until it starts to fade in a pink stream along his wrist.

Zayn struggles for a breath, rasping slightly when he moves, one foot resting on the base of the branch and the other dangling. He needs to get out of the tree but it feels like his shoulder is on fire and the rain is pouring heavily, drenching his clothes. The cold seeps into his skin, sinking into his bones and he shudders and attempts to wriggle himself closer to the side of the trunk. The movement tugs at the wound in his side and he gasps, breaths coming out harsh. His vision goes spotty for a moment, black dots dancing at the corners of his eyes. He feels briefly as if he’s falling and then as if the air has been punched from his lungs.

The ground, he thinks, dazed. A new, dull throb pounds insistently at the base of his skull, trailing down his spine; Zayn lets out a scratchy breath, planting the palm of his uninjured arm on the wet, muddy ground and hoisting himself up. His lungs scream and for a moment, it feels as if his heart might thrum out of his chest. Raindrops fall like tears against his skin.

Zayn stumbles away from the tree, one hand clutching over the wound in his side, the other wrapped shakily around his gun as he manages to get past the road and towards the clump of trees where he parked his motorcycle. He doesn’t make it that far, as soon as he crosses the road, his legs give way and he plunges into a singular darkness.

-

He wakes up with a start. 

It’s unbearably warm and dim and the second he shifts, it feels as if he’s been hit on the head with a brick. A cough punches out of his throat; Zayn gasps and blinks, vision clearing until he can make out a figure hunched over a laptop. Uneasiness sits heavy in his stomach, increasing rapidly when he realizes his shirt is gone and so is his gun.

“Where the fuck am I?” His voice sounds scratchy, raspy from misuse.

The man stands, startled. He inches towards Zayn slowly.

“You’re in my home,” he replies, careful. His accent is distinct.

“Who are you?” Zayn asks, shivering. He suddenly feels colder, as if the heat is being sucked from his bones.

The man begins to move closer but Zayn glares as sharply as he can manage through half lidded eyes and the man pauses.

“My name’s Harry,” His words are slow, mouth pulled into a slight frown.

Zayn suddenly becomes acutely aware of his surroundings; he spots his gun lying on a table covered in bloody rags and a dish containing three bullets. His shirt, or what remains of it, lies in rags on the floor and there’s bandages wrapped clumsily around his torso and shoulder. A fire crackles near the couch he’s lying on.

“You got hurt,” Harry stops and then takes a step forward, “I found you, mate, near the road just outside town…” he trails off.

“Who sent you?” He demands, aware that every twitch of his muscles sends waves of pain through his shoulder. His throat feels dry, each word he spits out crumbles at the back of his throat, rendering his sentences short and limited.

Harry’s eyes flicker with confusion and Zayn lets a breath he doesn’t realize he’s holding go.

“Water,” he mumbles and watches Harry shuffle out of the room, returning with a glass of water.

Zayn downs the glass; water dribbles out of the corners of his mouth and he realizes Harry’s watching him through his glasses. He wipes the corner of his mouth with his hand when he’s finished.

“Jacket,” Zayn motions to his leather jacket strewn on the floor with a shaky hand.

Harry crouches down and picks it up, tossing it into Zayn’s lap.

“You got another gun in there?” Harry jokes slightly.

Zayn ignores him, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out his cigarettes and lighter. He plucks one from the pack, lighting it quickly. He sucks in a long drag, shutting his eyes briefly. Pillowy smoke billows from the corner of his mouth and he doesn't speak until at least half of his cigarette has burned away. 

“What’s your name?” Harry’s tone is neutral, eyes following Zayn’s cigarette as he smokes.

“Zach,” he replies easily, lie tumbling out from behind his teeth like the smoke he exhales lazily.

Harry’s silent for a brief moment and then he purses his lips, as if he’s about to speak. He closes his mouth.

Zayn takes a few more drags and then puts it out carelessly in the palm of his hand. Harry watches with poor subtlety as he flicks the butt onto the table. Smoking has taken the edge off; he feels more looser and his pain becomes background.

“You got a sweater or something?” Zayn tilts his head, lifting his uninjured hand and running it through his hair.

“Uh, yeah,” Harry says, standing.

Once he’s gone, Zayn sniffs, clenching his jaw tight as he attempts to stand, uninjured hand gripping the arm of the sofa hard enough that his knuckles go white. The pain is almost excruciating; as if there’s a wide hole stretching apart in his side and his knees might give way. He heaves out a wet, ragged breath, uninjured arm flying to wrap around his side in an effort to smother the searing pain in his side.

“Oh, hey!” He can hear Harry’s quick footsteps as he rushes forward, one arm looping around Zayn’s waist, the other to his bicep, stabling him.

Zayn jerks away instinctively, immediately collapsing on the sofa from the lack of support with enough pressure to send an aching throb through his shoulder.

“Don’t touch me,” he says, voice clipped and tight.

“You were going to fall,” Harry replies, almost cautiously, as if he’s talking to a spooked animal. 

Somehow, that makes him feel more irritated then he already is.

“I would’ve caught myself.” Zayn says hastily and Harry only hands him the sweater, disappearing from the room once again.

It’s an obnoxious orange colour with irregularly long sleeves and takes him several minutes to pull over his head due to his immobile arm but he manages. Harry comes back with a bottle of prescription painkillers, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he hands Zayn the bottle wordlessly. Zayn sinks deeper into the couch, twisting the painkiller bottle open. He knocks two back before settling carefully into a semi-comfortable position.

“I’m going to bed,” he pauses and then adds, “don’t try anything.”

Zayn can’t help but scan Harry, eyes running over his form. He’s wearing a long sleeved sweatshirt and grey, frayed sweatpants, brown curls fall into his startling green eyes absently. If Zayn wanted to hurt him, he could’ve by now, even with his injuries.

He scoffs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeahhhhhh we’ll see where this goes lol

Zayn wakes up at sunrise, feeling somewhat worse than he felt before. The throbbing pain is gone, replaced by a somewhat dense, dull ache rooted at his shoulder and side. Sunlight bleeds through the small window behind him and beams of pale light flicker against his skin. 

He slides his gun out from where he put it last night under the couch cushion, tossing it towards the table. He scrubs a hand over his chin, grimacing. He can hear the vague sizzle of something being cooked and sighs, rubbing his eyes until the remaining sleep ebbs away, leaving red spots blinking at the corners of his vision.

“I made breakfast,” Harry appears, holding a plate and a glass of water. He puts the plate and water down on the table, eyes falling to the gun sitting idle at the edge. He doesn’t say anything.

Zayn sniffs, feeling more nauseous than hungry, uninjured arm trembling as he hoists himself up into a sitting position.

He glances at the plate; there’s some scrambled eggs and bacon. He doesn’t eat bacon.

“Thanks,” he mutters and then snatches the bottle of painkillers off the table, shaking out two and swallowing them with a quick gulp of water.

Harry clears his throat and busies himself with cleaning the bloody rags and bullets off the table. He wipes it clean as Zayn forks some eggs into his mouth.

They’re rubbery.

“You’re going to have to tell me why you had a gun in your pocket and three bullets in your body eventually,” Harry says, not looking at Zayn.

Zayn doesn’t reply.

“I’m not stupid. You’re lucky I haven’t called the police.”

“Why haven’t you?”

Harry looks up, eyes sharp and pale, lips twitching into a slight frown.

Zayn tilts his head back slightly, plucking the pack of cigarettes and lighter from under his pillow. He lights it, taking a slow drag as Harry watches, eyes flickering from Zayn’s eyes to his mouth.

“You’re a criminal, aren’t you.”

It’s more of a statement than a question. 

Zayn holds his breath in for a moment, letting the smoke fill his lungs before he sighs, letting clouds of ashy white smoke escape from the corners of his mouth. He smiles crookedly, momentarily amused by the furrow of Harry’s brow, watching as his hand rises to push back unruly chestnut curls. He breathes out slow and heavy; Zayn can see his chest rise and fall through his t shirt.

“Was it the gun that gave it away?” He laughs dryly, unable to help it.

Harry only frowns, “I could go to jail…” he trails off.

“Shouldn’t have brought me home, mate.”

“Yeah, because I was just supposed to let someone die.”

“I would’ve.” He shrugs.

Harry’s eyes go hard for a moment; he looks away and then chuckles, a choked, harsh noise.

Zayn sighs, taking another drag before putting out the cigarette. He knows what Harry’s expecting; an explanation, a reason for why Zayn was sprawled on the side of a road with two bullets in his shoulder and another in his torso. But there’s nothing Zayn could say that would make the situation work in his favour. Not now at least.

So he shuts his eyes and sniffs and doesn’t reply.

Harry scoffs, half unbelieving and half confused.

“I have a criminal in my home,” he mumbles, mostly to himself and then picks up the untouched plate of food, shuffling out of the room.

-

He doesn’t see Harry for the rest of the day. He spends most of it asleep, knocked out against the arm of the sofa, one arm slung around his waist, pressing absently on the bullet wound in his torso. When he wakes up again, to the building pressure on his lower abdomen, it’s nearly 4 o’clock.

Zayn exhales slowly, lifting himself into a sitting position, one hand coming to rest on the arm of the sofa. He winces; the impact of his hand on the arm of the sofa sends a dull vibration through his shoulder. He plants the other hand beside him, hips angling slightly forward as he pushes up in an attempt to stand. It doesn’t work, the pressure against his shoulder is enough to cause his arm to tremble slightly. He falls back onto the sofa, dizzy.

He tries again, this time with less pressure on his arm and more on his legs but still, it’s not enough force to lift him off completely.

“Harry?” He calls out. His voice doesn’t carry out farther than the room. He doesn’t really expect Harry to come tumbling to help him up so he can take a piss but he tries anyway.

“Harry?”

No reply.

He doesn’t even know where the bathroom is, he realizes belatedly.

Finally, Harry appears, wrinkling his nose as he strides closer to Zayn. He has a pen in one hand, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

“What?”

“Can you help me up?”

Harry squints from behind his glasses, one hand flying up to push a wayward curl out of his eyes.

“I thought you didn’t want me to touch you.”

Zayn feels heat climb up his neck; he sniffs, “yeah, I know,” and then, more annoyed, “just help me up, yeah?”

Harry tosses his pen onto the table and then shuffles closed, crouching slightly. He wraps one arm around Zayn’s middle, warm palm resting on Zayn’s uninjured side. The other hand leads Zayn’s uninjured arm across his shoulders until Zayn grips tightly at the material of his shirt.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

The movement causes a flash of pain in his side, as if the flesh on his torso is being pressed on but within seconds he’s standing.

Harry turns, his nose brushing slightly against Zayn’s cheekbone; he inhales sharply, loosening his grip on Harry’s shirt.

“Bathroom?” He asks.

Harry leads him out of the living room slowly, fingertips brushing over the jut of Zayn’s hip at every step he takes. Luckily, the bathroom is near the living room where Zayn is, just a few steps down the hall.

“Alright, I’m going to let go, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

It takes Zayn 10 minutes to finally leave the bathroom. He washes his face twice, running a hand over the stubble that’s begun to form, holding his hands under the hot water until it’s painful. When he’s done he examines his injuries, lifting the sweater slightly to get a good look. The bandages are white, wrapped completely around Zayn’s torso, a little too loose but still good. Red bleeds through where the bullet hole is and he realizes that the bandages need to be changed. The situation is the same with his shoulder, spots of blood appearing on the surface of the bandages.

Harry’s standing outside, playing a game on his phone, when Zayn opens the door.

“I’ll walk myself,” he says and Harry nods slightly.

Needing assistance to walk across the room is something he wants to avoid entirely. The problem isn’t walking, the problem is standing up. Still, Harry follows close behind as Zayn takes the 20 painfully slow steps across the living room and collapses back on the sofa. 

Harry picks up his pen and for a moment, Zayn thinks he’s leaving again. But as he fumbles around for his cigarette pack, Harry turns and takes a seat on the single love seat beside the sofa.

“You’re going to have to tell me something,” he says and Zayn raises an eyebrow, cigarette balanced at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Who are you?”

Zayn lights the cigarette, taking a deep inhale before he turns to Harry. His eyes lock with Harry’s pale green ones.

“My name is Zayn,” he stops, taking another drag, “I kill people.”

Harry tilts his head back, chin jutting out slightly, mouth pressed into a tight line.

“Who shot you?” He asks after what seems like eternity.

“Some guy protecting the man I killed.”

“Who did you kill?”

“Can’t say.”

He takes another drag. Smoke seeps out from behind his teeth, escaping into the air.

Harry goes quiet.

“Is that all?”

He looks up, dazed, “yeah.”

Zayn watches as he takes off his glasses, wiping them with the hem of his shirt with fingers that shake slightly and put them back on again.

He’s never been able to read people, not one of his assets but Harry looks nervous, with his brow knit tight and mouth pursed into a slight frown.

“I won’t kill you.”

Harry looks up, “how do I know?”

Zayn sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose; a headache has begun to tap at the base of his skull sending pulses of pain towards his temples.

“Because you saved my life.”

Sunlight streams down from the window, against the floor in a steady strip and catches on Harry. It hits his face, shimmering in a line against his eyes, along his nose and mouth.

Zayn tears his gaze away.

“Is that all?” He repeats.

Harry nods, blinking several times, hard.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “that’s all.”


End file.
